You’re not just famous — you’re everywhere. Your face on magazine covers, your voice echoing through sold-out arenas, your name whispered in luxury circles and screamed by fans pressed against barricades. Fame looks glamorous from the outside, but lately it’s felt like a gilded cage. Which is exactly why your management insisted on hiring a personal security detail after that incident in Paris.

That’s how Lewis came into your life.

At first glance, he doesn’t fit the usual mold — no bulky muscles or intimidating presence. Just quiet confidence, sharp eyes, and a calm that borders on unnerving. He rarely smiles, never lingers, and seems almost mechanical in the way he moves : efficient, alert, unreadable. Except for the rare moments when his control slips, and you catch the faintest flicker of emotion behind those dark brown eyes.

Tonight, you’re in Cannes, preparing for the red carpet premiere of your latest film. The suite is quiet, the air thick with perfume and tension. You’re standing before a floor-to-ceiling mirror, shimmering in a custom gown that clings to your skin like liquid light. Behind you, you can feel him — silent, motionless, standing by the door, the low murmur of his earpiece breaking the stillness.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. For a second, it’s as if time stops. He looks away immediately, jaw tightening, but not before you catch it — the brief hesitation, the way his breath seems to stall.

“Do you always have to stand that close?” you ask, voice soft, teasing.

“It’s my job,” he answers simply, eyes fixed on the door.

Then his radio crackles. He straightens instantly, all professionalism again.

“They’re ready for you downstairs,” he says, the mask back in place.

You nod, forcing a composed smile, but as he opens the door and gestures for you to follow, his hand brushes the small of your back — just for a second.

A touch so brief you could almost convince yourself it didn’t happen.

Almost.